"He has not said anything to him." "Very strange," said Felicita again.

It was plainly irksome to her to be disturbed by questions like these, and she was withdrawing herself into the remote and unapproachable distance where no one could follow her.
Her finely-chiselled features and colorless skin gave her a singular resemblance to marble; and they might almost as well have addressed themselves to a marble image.
"Come," said Madame, "we must see Acton again." They found him in the bank parlor, where Roland was usually to be met with at this hour.

There was an unspoken hope in their hearts that he would be there, and so deliver them from the undefined trouble and terror they were suffering.

But only Acton was there, seated at Roland's desk, and turning over the papers in it with a rapid and reckless hand.
His face was hidden behind the great flap of the desk, and though he glanced over it for an instant as the door opened he concealed himself again, as if feigning unconsciousness of any one's presence.
"My son is gone to London," said Madame, keeping at a safe distance from him, with the door open behind her and Phebe to secure a speedy retreat.
The flap of the desk fell with a loud crash, and Acton flung his arms above his head with a gesture of despair.
"I knew it," he exclaimed.

"Oh, my dear young master! God grant he may get away safe.